


And to the Winner go the Spoils

by Onamonapiedia



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gladiators, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pre-War, Rape Aftermath, Serious Injuries, Sexual Slavery, non-explicit reference to prostitution, non-explicit reference to violence and death, references to gladatorialized combat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onamonapiedia/pseuds/Onamonapiedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an evening spent fighting in the gladiatorial pits, Megatron waits in the wings with his fellow warriors for the chance that tonight he will simply be allowed to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Megatron sat on the dusty ground of the gladiatorial pit’s combatant wing, the spilled energon of his latest challenger forming a sticky layer of filth across his frame as it cooled in the stuffy air of the underground passage.  The crowds had long since left, their roaring masses spilling back out onto the streets to revel in the brutality they had just witnessed.  He chewed on the blunt end of the cygar he won off a fellow gladiator for defeating the visiting champ in under a breem, watching as the supposedly unbeatable mech’s gray frame was hauled from the arena, off to the smelting pits with the rest of the rubbish this city produced.

Glancing at the bruised and battered mechs seated around him, he assessed the toll tonight’s fights had taken on his fellow warriors.  Several of the fighters bore large gashes carved into their frames.  Many were missing optics or large chunks of their plating.  One had even managed to get his whole arm ripped off and was now hugging the severed limb to his chestpaltes, a grave look in his optics as he stared down at what only a few cycles ago had been a working part of his frame, but now held only the gray tint of death creeping in from the sides.

Though these injuries were of little concern.  Such wounds merely the sport in these games they played, the violence and gore spectators paid to see, the reason any of them were even getting paid.  There had only been one real loss on their side that evening, an unskilled ruffian who had no business entering the death matches.  The idiot refusing any caution the veteran gladiators offered in defense of his life, desperate to prove himself through blood and steal.  The dimwit never stood a chance, not even lasting a full round before his corpse fell graying to the floor.  His passing would not be mourned, the mechs here were too busy grieving their own hardships to exhaust any anguish on such a useless fool.

Later their wounds would be mended, gouges welded shut and missing body parts replaced.  Everyone made shiny and new again for next deca-cycle’s matches, ready to tear into their own kind for the roar of the crowd and the promise that for one more mega-cycle their tanks would be filled.  But repairs would have to wait, for the night’s entertainment was far from over.

Across the passageway the refuse collectors finally managed to make it out into the hall, fumbling in their undertaking as they attempted to balance the large brawler’s corpse on their minibot frames.  As the doors slid shut on the laborers, disposing of the once proud warrior’s remains in a trash shoot to await incineration with the other failures of that night’s competition, silence descended upon the group of battered mechs.  No one wanted to speak up and risk ending this small reprieve they were allowed in their solitude.  Every mech there wordlessly wishing in unison that today they would simply be forgotten, allowed to rust for the rest of eternity in this cramped chamber extending off of that pit of brutality.

But tonight there would be no answer to these despondents’ prayers.  There never was.

When the doors again slid apart, every frame in the alcove tensed in apprehension, but the usual swarm of affluent investors and elite patrons, optics hungry with anticipation, was nowhere to be seen.  Instead a single mech stood framed in the passage, and in an instant everyone knew there would be no bonuses tonight.

The purple mech slowly stepped into the room, the decorative wings on his back fanning out behind him like those capes so prized by the gentry, the false optics of his bestial crown, intended to frighten and impress his influential associates, gleaming in the dim light.  The aspiring politician took a moment to inspect his stock, optics wandering about the damaged frames for which he held title, scrutinizing them not for care of their wounds or insurance of their health.  Instead he searched for his appetite alone, curious as to what would please his fancy this evening.

For a few moments’ his optics flitted from one mech to another, not satisfied with anything in his sights.  It was not until his gaze fell upon energon streaked silver that the corner of the wealthy mech’s lipplates turned up in a smirk.

Megatron did not need to wait to be told to rise from his seat, the possessive glint in his proprietor’s optics already revealing his fate.  He took his time in straightening to a stand, being careful not to put too much strain on his knee crushed earlier that evening with a battle axe, yet also insuring not to show any weakness to the sadistic mech awaiting his approach.  As he stood tall he paused to take one last drag from the cygar still held between his lips, locking optics with the mech he was intentionally holding up as he dropped the empty device to the floor and slowly ground the debris to scrap.

As he crossed the room, doing his best to hide a slight limp, he decidedly didn’t think on what would happen in these next few cycles.  His mind never wandered to soft sheets or lush pillows.  He never reflected on what additional parts of his body would be aching when he woke up the next day, covered in fluids both his and not his own.  He never even speculated on the chance that he might make it through this night with his injured knee still intact.

No.  The only place he allowed his mind to wander was to the lukewarm solvents and coarse cloths of the wash racks eagerly awaiting his return, and to their promise of for once in his life finally being clean.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron returns to the gladiatorial pit from his unwanted night out and gains the chance at that much needed shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit descriptions of violence and rape. Read at your own risk.

Megatron staggered into the communal wash racks of the gladiatorial ring, grateful to find the often crowded gathering place still empty this early in the mega-cycle; the usual denizens of the hangout no doubt still recharging in their cramped chambers, content in the knowledge that, at least for the time being, they were safe from the attentions of their superiors.  Gingerly, the sullied mech made his way over to the closest stall, his progress slowed to a limp as his newly lamed pede dragged uselessly behind him.  Bracing a servo on the wall, the damaged warrior reached out to the tap, cringing in pain as frigid cleanser surged from the faucet, streaming lines of agony down his cut and beaten plating.

Halting to collect himself, and waiting for the sharp bite of icy solvent to dull, the defiled mech fought to gain control of his intakes as the stinging liquid’s caress summoned unwanted memories of a biting whip and digging claws.  Each brush of cleanser pulling him further from the safety of the shower stall, down the grim ridden halls of the underground barracks, out the maintenance shaft hiding the entrance to the concealed arena, all the way up that stiflingly opulent lift and back into the lavish room at the top of the only tower in all of Kaon; the phantom embrace of a padded berth still clinging to his back, a wanton thermal blanket binding his legs as it was needlessly stained with his vital fluids’ spray, and the sickening pant of a hot breath kissing depravities along his neck.

Dragging himself from recent horrors, and forcing his mind to anchor itself in the present, the beaten warrior willed the all-consuming pain to deaden to a tolerable ache.  As his optics came back online, his sights focused on the servo affixed to the stained wall of the overused stall, around his wrist the telltale wear of a too tight bind glaring angrily back at him.  In his processor’s optic the glint of gold painted chains viciously flashed, the delicate weight of the flimsy metal still heavy on his arm even in its absence.

The chains themselves had been no restraint, a cheap metal decorated to allude the wealth and influence of a higher station, their once gleaming exterior already dulled and chipped with overindulgence, allowing the tarnished alloy poorly hidden beneath to shine through.  The binds would have been easier to break than the mech who commanded their donning, something his tormentor knew well.  No, the shackles held no purpose other than to remind him of the authority the aspiring aristocrat held over his life, should the indentured mech feel inclined to deny any of his proprietor’s attentions.

Tearing his sights from the bloody wrist, the beaten warrior forced him gaze on the grimy metal paneling of the common use stall as he agonizingly compelled his free servo to move, using a tainted cloth to wipe away the dried energon stains coating his plating.  As his hand moved, he fought the sensations of weak servos pinning him down and spreading him wide, the faint sound of his assailant’s breath wafting on the back of his neck as his every inferiority and flaw was whispered lovingly into his audio.  Every brush evoked a bite or lash, every scrape an echoing cry, and by the time the once proud mech had cleared his frame of all mechly fluids, both his and not his own, he could no longer keep the tremor from his hands.

When the task was complete the gladiator simply stood in the abrasive cascade, wishing the cleanser would burrow through his plating and wash away the filth crowding his spark.  Yet he knew he had no time to dawdle, his allotted solvent nearly depleted and still one more place to clean.  As the click of his panel opening echoed through the empty chamber, the tarnished fighter struggled to keep the contents of his tank from purging, the sustenance of energon too valuable to waste on a washroom wall.

Reluctantly he commanded his spike to extend, wincing as every fold stretched outward, for even in its unpressurised state the agony was unbearable.  He tried to be quick in removing the soiled smears, riding himself of the foreign contaminants bleaching through his skin; yet repeatedly he had to pause to gently dab at the three long marks left behind by a trio of constricting pleasure bands he had been forced to don by his own hand.  Though this was far from the worst of his pains, for below the suffering appendage lay the center of his torment and his aggressor conquest.

Gently wiping at the outer rim of the bloodied hole, the warrior could not bring himself to look at the open wound once part of his anatomy.  It had been many a meta-cycle since he derived anything but pain from that cavity, and he had long since lost hope of pleasure ever entering his body again.  Slowly he removed the remains of his violation: paint transfers, transfluid stains, and an immense crust of bodily energon draining from inside; only stumbling upon the rare trace of lubricant, useless in its insufficiency.  When the touch became unbearable, the gladiator removed the cloth, uncaring for any filth that remained, and sealed his panel with the hope of never reopening it again, just as the shower head sputtered out and died.

Standing in the silent room, the deceptively clean mech waited, listening for any indication he was not alone, that a step outside the stall would be a return to torment and misery.  Only when silence was all that met his audios did he venture from his illusory safety and begin the journey back to his barracks and the one luxury his gladiatorial ranking permitted, a private room.  If he could manage to it there before collapsing in a heap of broken mechanics, it would be midday before he was next disturbed.

However progress was slow with only one leg’s support, and a visit to the arena’s medical bay would have to wait till morning, when the medics were awake and he had last night’s winnings to pay for repairs.  The physicians may be obligated to mend any damages, to keep all gladiators in fighting form, but they were loath to additional work, often requiring other forms of payment for noncombat injuries were their palms not initially greased.  And that was a price he was not twice willing to pay.

For now he would settle for the laborious journey down this ever lengthening hall, and the fleeting dream of escape held at its end.


End file.
